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— HiBOSHIGE. 


A  JAPANESE  PRINT 
By  Ruth  Mason  Rice 


'A  curve  for  the  shore, 

A  line  for  the  lea, 
A  tint  for  the  sky — 

Where  the  sun-rise  will  be ; 
A  stroke  for  a  gull, 

A  sweep  for  the  main ; 
The  skill  to  do  more; 

With  the  will  to  refrain." 


TWELVE  JAPANESE  PAINTERS 


^    ''d^'i^^*^^  <^J^^ 


In  the  volume  of  "Japanese 
Prints,"  by  John  Gould  Fletcher, 
dedicated  "To  My  Wife,"  it  is  a  short 
elusive  statement  comprising  a  poem, 
which  forms  n  richly  suggestive 
preface; 

Granted  this  dew-drop  world  be  but 

a  dew-drop  world. 
This  granted,  yet — 


-J 


Japanese  Print 

(Cinquains) 


I 
Purple 
Shore  lines 

Gather  up  the  moon-glow 
Leaving  these  deep  still  waters 
To  the  night 

II 
Boatmen 
Are  silhouettes 
In  their  low  cabin  door 
And  willow  branches  spill  across 
The  moon. 

Ill 

Within 

The  lit  doorway 

The  kodanshi  repeats 

An  old  tale  to  a  liateniug 

Shadow. 

IV 
Cargoes 

Of  ageless  dreams 
Drift  by  in  little  boats 
That  ride  in  the  long  wake  of 
A  full  moon. 

t.^  i  Ethel  Louise  Knox. 


w^^^:&^^ii^ 


ORIENTAL  SCHOLAR  DIES       ! 

CHICAGO,      Jan.       18.     UP)— I) 
Frederick  William  Gookin,  83  yeai^i 
of  age.  oriental  scholar  and  curatorl 
of  Japanese  prints  at  the  Chica--' 
Art    Institute,    died    of    pneumoi. 
last  night  at  his  home  in  suburb; 
Winnetka. 
-• .. . 


Copyrieht  1913 
Arthur  Daviion  Ficke 


The  Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  Company 
Fine  Arts  Building  Chicago 


The  Ukioye  School  of  Japanese  painting,  best 
known  of  all  Japanese  schools,  but  still  too  little 
known,  is  the  theme  of  this  group  of  poems.  It 
were  too  much  to  hope  that,  through  them,  any 
new  lover  could  be  led  to  these  remarkable  paint- 
ings and  prints;  but  at  least  a  few  old  lovers  may 
be  interested  to  examine  an  attempt  at  voicing  cer- 
tain impressions  which  these  works  produce  in  all 
who  are  familiar  with  them. 

For  the  cover-design  of  this  volume,  the  author 
is  deeply  indebted  to  Mr.  Frederick  W.  Gookin. 


PROLOGUE 

As  chosen  guests  ye  may  partake 
Of  this  strange  hostel's  ancient  wine. 
For  thirst  no  common  drink  can  slake, 
Tapsters  of  lineage  divine 
Here  pour  sweet  anodyne. 

The  hurly-burly  of  the  road, 
The  turmoil  of  the  carters'  feet, 
Intrude  not  to  this  still  abode 
Where  travelers  from  the  world-ends  meet, 
And  find  the  gathering  sweet.  , 

Hence  may  perhaps  some  secret  gleam 
Follow  along  our  onward  way, 
From  evening  feast  with  lords  of  dream. 
As  we  go  forth  into  the  gray 
Tomorrow's  cloudy  day. 


,*-.-i; 


;■;;♦'  4 


CONTENTS. 

Prologue    3 

Figure  of  a  Girl  by  Harunobu 7 

Koriusai  Speaks 11 

Portrait  of  an  Actor  in  Tragic  role  by  Shunsho.  .  13 

Festival  Scene  by  Kiyonaga 15 

Dramatic  Portrait  by  Sharaku 17 

Group  of  Women  by  Shuncho 19 

Two  Women  by  Kitao  Masanobu 21 

Portrait  of  a  Woman  by  Yeishi 23 

Landscape  by  Hiroshige 27 

The  Pupil  of  Toyokuni 29 

Landscape  by  Hokusai 33 

A  Group  of  Ladies  by  Toyohiro 35 

Portrait  of  a  Woman  by  Utamaro 37 

The  Birds  and  Flowers  of  Hiroshige 41 

The  Landscapes  of  Hiroshige 43 

Epilogue    47 


TWELVE  JAPANESE  PAINTERS 


HARUNOBU 


FIGURE  OF  A  GIRL 
BYHARUNOBU 


THAT  somewhere  in 
the  West, — 

In  gulfs  of  sunset,  isles 
of  rest, — 

Rise  dewy  from  pre- 
natal sleep 

To  strew  with  little 
waves  the  deep, — 

Surely  it  is  your  breath 
that  stirs 

These  fluttering  gauzy 
robes  of  hers! 


Come  whence  ye  may,  I  marvel  not 
That  ye  are  lured  to  seek  this  spot : 
Your  tenuous  scarcely-breathed  powers 
Sway  not  the  sturdier  garden-flowers, 
And  had  unmanifest  gone  by — 
Save  that  she  feels  them  visibly. 

O  little  winds,  her  little  hands 
In  time  with  tunes  from  faery-lands 
Are  moving;  and  her  bended  head 
Knows  nothing  of  the  long  years  sped 
Since  heaven  more  near  to  earth  was  hung, 
And  gods  lived,  and  the  world  was  young. 

Her  inner  robe,  of  tenderest  fawn, 
In  cool  faint  fountains  of  the  dawn 
Was  dyed ;  and  her  long  outer  dress 
Borrows  its  luminous  loveliness 
From  some  clear  bowl  with  water  filled 
In  which  one  drop  of  wine  was  spilled. 

Peace  folds  her  in  its  deeps  profound ; 
Her  shy  glance  lifts  not  from  the  ground ; 
And  through  this  garden's  still  retreat 
She  moves  with  tripping  silver  feet 
Whose  tranced  grace,  where'er  she  strays, 
Turns  all  the  days  to  holy  days. 

Hers  is  the  boon  of  manifold 
Small  joys  that  never  can  grow  old. 
Though  her  poised  head  and  quiet  eye 
The  mood  of  these  light  steps  deny, 
It  is  the  playful  solemn  art 
Of  childhood  innocence  of  heart. 

8 


Come!  let  us  softly  steal  away. 
For  what  can  we,  whose  hearts  are  gray, 
Bring  to  her  dreaming  paradise? 
A  chill  shall  mock  her  from  our  eyes ; 
A  cloud  shall  dim  this  radiant  air: 
Come!  for  our  world  is  otherwhere. 

But  O  ye  little  winds  that  blow 
From  golden  islands  long  ago 
Lost  to  our  searching  in  the  deep 
Of  dreams  between  the  shores  of  sleep,— 
Ye  shall  her  happy  playmates  be. 
Fluttering  her  robes  invisibly. 


^^<^'i^ 


II 

KORIUSAI  SPEAKS 

Let  whoso  will  take  sheets  as  wide 
As  some  great  wrestler's  mountain-back: 
Space  will  not  hide 
His  lack. 


Take  thou  the  panel,  being  strong. 
'Tis  as  a  girl's  arm  fashioned  right, — 
As  slender  and  divinely  long 
And  white. 


That  tall  and  narrow  icy  space 
Gives  scope  for  all  the  brush  beseems. 
And  who  shall  ask  a  wider  place 
For  dreams? 


It  is  an  isle  amid  the  tide, — 
A  chink  wherethrough  shines  one  lone  star,- 
A  cell  where  calms  of  heaven  hide 
Afar. 


One  chosen  curve  of  beauty  wooed 
From  out  the  harsh  chaotic  world 
Shall  there  in  solitude 
Be  furled. 

The  narrow  door  shall  be  so  strait 
Life  cannot  vex,  with  troubled  din, 
Beauty,  beyond  that  secret  gate 
Shut  in. 

11 


Lo!  I  will  draw  two  lovers  there, 
Alone  amid  their  April  hours, 

With  lines  as  drooping  and  as  fair 
As  flowers. 

I  will  make  Spring  to  circle  them 
Like  a  faint  aureole  of  delight. 

Their  luminous  youth  and  joy  shall  stem 
The  night. 

And  men  shall  say — Behold !  he  chose, 
From  Time's  wild  welter  round  him  strown, 
This  hour;  and  paid  for  its  repose 
His  own. 


12 


III 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  ACTOR  IN  TRAGIC  ROLE 
BY  SHUNSHO 

His  soul  is  a  sword ; 
His  sword  with  the  spirit's  breath 
Is  bathed  of  its  terrible  lord, 
In  whose  eyes  is  death. 

And  the  massive  control,  i 

And  the  lighted  implacable  eye 
Leash  a  fierce  and  exalted  soul 
Of  dark  destiny. 


With  the  strength  of  the  hills, — 
Kiso's  iron  mountains  of  snow, — 
He  waits :  time  brings  and  fulfills 
The  hour  for  the  blow. 

He  waits;  and  the  white 
Full  robes  round  his  shoulders  sway. 
With  woof  of  pale  orange  alight. 
Pale  green,  pale  gray. 

Like  a  falcon,  flown 
To  bleak  mid-regions  of  sky. 
He  poises.    One  image  alone 
Holds  his  sinster  eye, — 

A  vision,  a  prey 
Toward  which  he  shall  soon  be  hurled  ;- 
And  his  fury  shall  darken  the  day, 
And  his  joy,  the  world. 


13 


A  music  enfolds  him 
Like  the  thunders  that  are  poured 
Across  heaven ;  it  holds  him 
With  the  song  of  the  sword. 

It  enthralls,  it  inspires, 
And  its  zenith  shall  be 
Lightning  of  unleashed  desires 
Crashing  along  the  sea. 


IV 

FESTIVAL  SCENE  BY  KIYONAGA 

What  gods  are  these,  reborn  from  gracious  days 
To  fill  our  gardens  with  diviner  mould 
Than  therein  dwelling?  What  bright  race  of  old 
Revisits  here  one  hour  our  mortal  ways? 
Serene,  dispassionate,  with  lordly  gaze 
They  move  through  this  clear  afternoon  of  gold. 
Equal  to  life  and  all  its  deeps  may  hold. 
Calm,  spacious  masters  of  the  glimmering  maze. 

What  gods  are  these?    or  godlike  men?  whom 
earth  \ 

Suffices,  in  a  wisdom  just  and  high 
That  not  repines  the  boundaries  of  its  birth 
But  fills  its  destined  measure  utterly- 
Finding  in  mortal  sweetness  perfect  worth. 
Not  yet  grown  homesick  for  the  wastes  of  sky. 


15 


-Vv»^'<S" 


DRAMATIC  PORTRAIT  BY  SHARAKU 

Whence  art  thou  come, 
Tall  figure  clasping  to  thy  tragic  breast 

Thy  orange  robe,  a  flame  amid  the  gloom — 

By  what  wild  doom 
Art  thou  forever  onward,  onward  pressed? 

A  wreath  is  on  thy  brow, — 
A  crown  of  leafage  from  some  lonely  haunt 

Where  might  Medea's  shade  brood  ministrant. 

Thy  shoulders  bow 
Beneath  what  fearful  weight,  what  need,  what  vow? 

A  leopard  fierce — 
A  ghost  that  wanders  down  the  wandering  wind — 

A  fury  tracking  toward  some  shaken  mind, — 

Where  shall  I  find 
The  divination  that  thy  veil  shall  pierce? 

How  shall  I  wrest  ' 

From  thee  the  secret  of  thy  lofty  doom — 

From  what  wild  gulf  of  midnight  thou  dost  come 

Who,  with  clutched  breast, 
Stalkest  forever  onward,— onward  pressed? 


17 


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SHUNCHO 


VI 


GROUP  OF  WOMEN  BY  SHUNCHO 

Your  lovely  ladies  shall  not  fade 
Though  Yedo's  moated  walls  be  laid 
Level  with  dust,  and  night-owls  brood 
Over  the  city's  solitude. 
Far  be  the  coming  of  that  day ! 
Yet  that  it  comes  not,  who  shall  say? 
Who  knows  how  long  the  halls  shall  stand 
Of  your  once-golden  wonderland? 
Perhaps  shall  Nikko  crumble  down, 
Its  carvings  worn,  its  glow  turned  brown 
Through  many  winters.    On  that  hill 
Where  great  leyasu's  brazen  will 
In  brazen  tomb  now  takes  its  rest, 
Perhaps  the  eagle's  young  shall  nest. 
Kyoto's  gardens  cannot  last. 
At  Kamakura,  where  the  vast 
Form  of  the  Buddha  fronts  the  sea, 
A  waste  of  waves  may  someday  be. . .  . 

Ah,  stale  and  flat  the  warning  bell 
Whose  melancholy  accents  tell 
Impermanence  to  hearts  that  guess  ••' 

Time's  undiscovered  loveliness. 
A  fairer  Yedo  shall  arise ; 
A  richer  Nikko  praise  the  skies; 
leyasus  mightier  than  of  old 
Shall  cast  the  world  in  wiser  mould ; 
Fresh  gardens  shall  be  spread;  new  faith 
Shall  spring  when  Buddha  is  a  wraith ; — 
And  more  puissant  hands  than  yours 
Shall  paint  anew  life's  ancient  lures. 
Yet  when  he  comes  who  shall  surpass 

19 


Your  beauty  that  so  matchless  was, 

A  joy  shall  light  him  through  your  eyes, 

A  flame  shall  from  your  embers  rise, 

Your  gentle  art  shall  make  him  wise 

In  mastery  of  melodies. — 

And  though  your  wreath  in  dust  be  laid. 

Your  lovely  ladies  shall  not  fade! 


en  Ijy  Sbtatsu. 

cloudF.   and   a 
ting  in  a  gr«at  z-t^,  sxinz'-S  in  a  J 
high   arc, 

>  Under  clouds  of  gold,  over  clouds  ot 
I  gold— 

I  From    the    long   curvo   of   a   golden 
I  shore  ^  ,       , 

[Across   wide   spaces    of   dar.t   river! 
I  And   behold!   a  drifting  miracle — 
Behold    tho    long,    steady-advancing 

prow 
iOf  a  golden   boat,   heavier  than  the 
'  sun, 

*Qulet  upon  the  dark  river,   bearing 
,  two  lovers 

tin  robes  of  state,  intricate,  luminous. 
Jpon    this    dim    river  —  where    the 

great  arc 
>f     the     bridge     from     clouds     Into 

clouds 
Swings,  from  golden  shore  to  golden 

shore, 
I'rom    the    gold    earth    to    tho    gold 
heaven! 

— [Arthur  Davison  Pick©, 


20 


VII 


TWO  WOMEN  BY  KITAO  MASANOBU. 

What  floors  have  ye  trod?  What  sky-paven 
places  have  opened  their  halls  to  your  eyes? 

What  light  was  yours,  through  summerward  spaces 
watching  the  swallow  that  flies? 

What  holy  silence  has  touched  your  faces — what 
hush  of  paradise? 


I  think  that  he  died  of  a  longing  unspoken  who 
dreamed  you  to  walk  in  our  ways. 

The  wheel  at  the  cistern,  the  pitcher  is  broken :  ye 
wot  not  that  dust  decays — 

Ye,  torn  from  the  heart  of  the  dreamer  as  token  to 
dreamers  of  other  days. 


Masam.bv,  Okimika-  (ifisli.i   in  spring-time. 


4s^K'/»*WtTr4i!f 


VIII 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN  BY  YEISHI 

I 

Out  of  the  silence  of  dead  years 
Your  slender  presence  seems  to  move — 
A  fragrance  that  no  time  outwears — 
A  perilous  messenger  of  love. 

From  far,  your  wistful  beauty  brings 
A  wonder  that  no  lips  may  speak, — 
A  music  dumb  save  as  it  clings 
About  your  shadowy  throat  and  cheek. 

Longing  is  round  you  like  that  haze 
Of  luminous  and  tender  glow 
Which  memory  in  the  later  days 
Gives  vanished  days  of  long  ago. 

And  he  who  sees  you  must  retrace 
All  sweetness  that  his  life  has  known, 
And  with  the  vision  of  your  face 
Link  some  lost  vision  of  his  own. 

The  long  curves  of  your  saffron  dress, — 
The  outline  of  your  delicate  mould, — 
Your  strange  unearthly  slendemess 
Seem  like  a  wraith's  that  strayed  of  old 

Out  of  some  region  where  abide 
Fortunate  spirits  without  stain, 
Where  nothing  lovely  is  denied. 
And  pain  is  only  beauty's  pain. 

23 


II 

Strange !  that  in  life  you  were  a  thing 
Common  to  many  for  delight, 
Thrall  to  the  revelries  that  fling 
Their  gleam  across  the  fevered  night : — 

A  holy  image  in  the  grasp 
Of  pagans  careless  to  adore; 
A  pearl  secreted  in  the  clasp 
Of  oozy  weeds  on  some  lost  shore. 

My  thought  shrinks  back  from  what  I  see 
And  wanders  dumb  in  poisoned  air — 
Then  leaps,  inexplicably  free. 
Remembering  that  you  were  fair! 

Ill 

Beloved  were  you  in  your  prime 
By  one,  of  all,  who  came  as  guest, — 
A  wastrel  strange,  whose  gaze  could  climb 
To  where  your  beauty  lit  the  west. 

One, — in  whose  secret  heart  there  moved 
Some  far  and  unforgotten  stir 
Of  ancient  holy  beauties  loved, — 
Here  paused,  a  sudden  worshiper. 

Methinks  he  moved  in  dusks  apart 
Through  that  profound  and  trembling  hour 
When  you  within  his  doubting  heart 
Touched  all  the  desert  into  flower. 

And  where  you  rose  a  world's  delight. 
For  him  the  dark  veils  from  you  fell, — 
As  earthly  clouds  from  star-strewn  night 
Withdraw,  and  leave  a  miracle. 

24 


Not  Oiran  then,  but  maid ;  remote 
From  tyrant  powers  of  waste  desire. 
Who  drew  these  hands,  this  slender  throat, 
Saw  you  mid  shaken  winds  of  fire. 

You  were  a  shape  of  wonder,  set 
To  crown  the  seeking  of  his  days. 
For  you  his  lonely  eyes  were  wet; 
With  you  his  soul  walked  shrouded  ways. 

And  though  the  burning  night  might  keep 
You  servient  to  some  lord's  carouse, 
For  him  you  rose  from  such  a  deep 
With  maiden  dawn-light  on  your  brows. 

IV 

Pale  Autumn  with  ethereal  glow 
Hovered  your  delicate  figure  near; 
And  ever  round  you  whispered  low 
Her  voices,  and  the  dying  year. 

A  year, — a  day, — and  then  the  leaves 
Purpureal,  ashen,  umber,  red, 
Wove  for  you  both  through  waning  eves 
A  gorgeous  carpet  gloomward  spread. 

And  with  that  waning,  you  had  gone. 
Through  changes  that  love  fears  to  trace — 
No  later  lover  could  have  known 
Your  wistful  and  alluring  face — 

Your  music,  quivering  in  thin  air. 
Had  fled  with  life  that  filled  your  veins — 
But  he  for  whom  you  were  so  fair 
Dreamed ;  and  the  troubled  dream  remains. 

25 


Time,  that  is  swift  to  smite  and  rend 
The  common  things  that  spring  from  earth. 
Dares  not  so  surely  set  an  end 
To  shapes  of  visionary  birth. 

There  often  his  destroying  touch 
Lingers  as  with  a  lulled  caress, 
Adding,  to  that  which  has  so  much, 
An  alien  ghostly  loveliness. 

So  shall  your  beauty,  crescent,  pass 
From  me  through  many  a  later  hand, 
Each  year  more  luminous  than  it  was — 
O  April  out  of  Sunset  Land ! 


26 


IX 

LANDSCAPE  BY  HIROSHIGE 
(The  Bow-Moon) 

Where  the  torrent  leaps  and  falls, 
And  the  hanging  cliffs  look  down, — 
Cloven  gray  and  ruddy  walls, 
Each  with  ragged  forest-crown, — 

There  across  the  chasmed  deep 
Spans  a  gossamer  bridge  on  high; 
And  below,  from  gulfs  of  sleep. 
Mounts  the  Bow-Moon  up  the  sky. 

Blue  dusk,  thickening  whence  she  rose, 
Her  abysses  veils;  above 
Moves  she  into  daylight's  close 
As  faint  strains  of  music  move. 

On  the  eastern  slope  her  feet, — 
White,  in  tranced  ecstasy, — 
Climb,  a  ghost  of  heaven,  so  sweet 
That  the  spent  day  cannot  die. 

Walled  by  crags  on  either  side 
Glimmers  forth  her  figure  wan. 
Straying  like  some  lonely  bride 
Through  the  halls  of  Kubla  Khan. 

Pilgrim  of  the  riven  deep! 
Wheresoe'er  thy  lover  lie, 
Sleep  to  him  is  troubled  sleep 
While  his  Bow-Moon  haunts  the  sky. 


27 


loYOKLKi  I.— A  noble  youth  with  female  attendants  visiting  a  temple. 


X 


THE  PUPIL  OF  TOYOKUNI 

I  walk  the  crowded  Yedo  streets. 
And  everywhere  one  question  greets 
My  passing,  as  the  strollers  say — 
"How  goes  the  Master's  work  today? 
We  saw  him  sketching  hard  last  night 
At  Ryogoku,  where  the  bright 
Trails  of  the  rockets  lit  the  air. 
You  should  have  seen  the  ladies  there! 
All  the  most  famous  of  the  town 
In  gorgeous  robes  walked  up  and  down 
The  long  bridge-span,  well  knowing  he 
Was  there  to  draw  them  gorgeously. 
I'm  sure  he'll  give  us  something  fine, — 
Dark  splendid  figures,  lights  ashine, 
A  great  procession  of  our  best 
And  costliest  Oiran,  with  the  West 
Burning  behind  them.    When  it's  done, 
Pray,  of  the  copies,  save  me  one." 


Yes,  I  am  pupil  to  the  great. 
How  well  he  bears  his  famous  state ! 
With  what  superbness  he  fulfills 
The  multitude's  delighted  wills, 
Giving  them,  at  their  eager  call. 
Each  play  and  feast  and  festival 
Drawn  with  a  rich  magnificence: 
And  they  come  flocking  with  their  pence 
To  buy  his  sheets  whose  supple  power 
Captures  the  plaudits  of  the  hour, — 
Till  even  Utamaro's  eyes 
Turn,  kindled  with  swift  jealousies. 

29 


Strange !  that  before  this  crowded  shrine 
One  voice  is  lacking,  and  that  mine, — 
I,  learner  in  his  lordly  house, — 
I,  on  whose  cold  unwilling  brows 
The  lights  of  his  strong  glory  burn 
Blinding  my  heart  that  needs  must  yearn 
Far  from  the  measure  of  his  state, — 
I,  liegeman  to  another  fate. 
Would  that  some  blindness  came  on  me 
That  I  might  cease  one  hour  to  see 
For  all  his  high,  ambitious  will 

His  is  a  peasant's  nature  still 

What  utter  madness  that  my  thought 
Weighs  him, — I  who  am  less  than  naught! 
Where  he  walks  boldly,  there  I  creep. 
Where  his  assured  long  brush-strokes  sweep 
Unhesitant,  there  I  falter,  strain 
With  agony, — perhaps  in  vain, — 
For  some  more  subtly  curving  line, 
Some  musical  poising  of  design 
That  shall  at  last,  at  last  express 
My  frailer  glimpse  of  loveliness. 
And  yet,  for  all  his  facile  art, 
I  hug  my  impotence  to  my  heart. 
For  there  are  things  his  marching  mind 
In  steady  labors  day  by  day 
With  all  its  sight  shall  never  find. 
With  all  its  craft  can  never  say. 
There  are  lights  along  the  dusky  street 
That  his  bold  eyes  have  never  caught; 
There  are  tones  more  luminous,  more  sweet 
Than  any  that  his  hopes  have  sought. 
There  are  torturing  lines  that  curve  and  fall 
Like  dying  echoes  musical. 
Or  twine  and  lace  and  bend  and  roll 
In  labyrinths  to  lure  my  soul. 
His  ladies  sumptuous  and  rare 
30 


Move  princess-like  in  proud  design 

Of  glowing  loveliness:  but  where 

His  bannered  pomps  and  pageants  shine, 

I  feel  a  stiller,  rarer  peace, 

A  cadence  breathless,  slender,  lone. 

And  where  his  facile  brush-strokes  cease 

Begins  the  realm  that  is  my  own. 

I  wander  lonely  by  fields  and  streams. 
I  lie  in  wait  for  lingering  dreams 
That  brood,  a  tender-lighted  haze 
Down  the  wide  space  of  ending  days, — 
A  secret  thrill  that  hovering  flies 
Round  some  tall  form,  some  wistful  eyes. 
Some  thin  branch  where  the  Spring  is  green, — 
A  whisper  heard,  a  light  half-seen 
By  lonely  wanderers  abroad 
In  crowded  streets  or  solitude 
Of  hills, — to  haunt  with  dim  unrest 
The  empty  chambers  of  the  breast. 

Perhaps  some  day  a  heart  shall  come. 
Like  me  half-blind,  like  me  half-dumb. 
Like  me  contentless  with  the  clear 
Sunlighted  beauties  men  hold  dear. 
Perhaps  he  shall  more  greatly  prize 
My  faltered  whispers  from  afar 
Than  all  the  Master's  pageantries 
And  confident  pomp  and  press  and  jar. 
Yet,  well  or  ill,  how  shall  I  change 
The  measure  doled,  the  nature  given? 
Mine  is  the  thirst  for  far  and  strange 
Echoes  of  a  forgotten  heaven. 
I  listen  for  the  ghosts  of  sound; 
Remote  I  watch  life's  eager  stream; 
Through  wastes  afar,  through  gulfs  profound, 
I,  Toyohiro,  seek  my  dream. 

31 


The  Wave 

(HokusaVs  Picture) 


What  splendor  in  the  upflung  curve 
That  sprays  pearl-froth  upon  the  salt  stung  air! 
What  sublime  intensity  in  the  falling  fluid  form, 
What  glory  crouches  there! 

What  peace  and  stillness  in  Mount  Fuji's  noble  form 
Clear-glimpsed  within  that  splendid  wind-shaped  arc! 
It  contradicts  the  writhing  liveness  of  the  wave 
That  makes  one  smell  the  sea  and  h'fear  its  voices — hark! 

There,  in  a  picture,  is  the  facile  wall  of  green  Inclosing  one  around. 
The  relentless  crest  hissing  overhead  and  tossing  its  threatening  hair 
A  sense  of  being  overwhelmed,  submerged 
In  the  irresistible  coolness  of  water-beaten  air. 


It  is  a  thing  to  make  one's  thoughts  be  filled  with  wonder — 
This  great  crest  leaping  from  the  vastness  of  the  sea. 
Bravely  beautiful  as  an  eagle's  pinions  might  be  beautiful, 
Stirring  and  glorious  as  the  sound  of  a  trumpet-call  might  be! 

Doi-ORE.^  Cair.nS. 


XI. 

LANDSCAPE  BY  HOKUSAI. 
(The  Wave  at  Kanazawa.) 

Because  thou  wast  marvelous  of  eye,  magic  of 

fancy,  lithe  of  hand, — 
Because  thou  didst  play  o'er  many  a  gulf  where 

common  mortals  dizzy  stand, — 
Because  no  thing  in  earth  or  sky  escaped  the  pry- 

ings  of  thine  art, — 
I  call  thee,  who  wast  master  of  all,  the  master  with 

the  maakmif's  heart. 

Where  in  the  street  the  drunkards  roll, — ^where 

in  the  ring  the  wrestlers  sway, — 
Where  rustics  pound  the  harvest  rice,  or  fishers  sail, 

or  abbots  pray, — 
In  rocky  gorge,  or  lowland  field,  or  winter  heights 

of  mountain  air, — 
Wherever  man  or  beast   or  bird  or   flower  finds 

place, — yea,  everywhere. 
Thou  standest,  as  I  fancy,  rapt  in  the  live  play  of 

mass  and  line. 
Curiously  noting  every  poise ;  and  in  that  ugly  head 

of  thine 
Storing  it  with  unsated  fierce  passion  for  life's  min- 
utest part, 
Some  day  to  use  infallibly, — O  master  with   the 

Wttttt^  heart! 

"VOliere  Kanazawa's  thundering  shores  behold  the 
mounded  waters  rave. 
And   Fuji  looms   above  the  plain,  and   the   plain 
slopes  to  meet  the  wave,— 

3Z 


There  didst  thou  from  the  trembling  sands  un- 
leash thy  soul  in  sudden  flight 

To  soar  above  the  whirling  waste  with  awe  and 
wonder  and  delight. 

Thou  sawest  the  giant  tumult  poured;  each  slope 
and  chasm  of  cloven  brine 

Called  thee ;  and  from  the  scattered  rout  one  vision 
did  thy  sight  divine — 

One  heaven-affronting  whelming  wave  in  which  all 
common  waves  have  part —  ^rmj£jtU> 

A  billow  from  the  wrath  of  God,— O  iMHqFwith 
-^rjauBtakfif's  heart! 

What  mind  shall  span  thee?  Who  shall  praise 
or  blame  thy  world-embracing  sight 

Whose  harvest  was  each  rocb  and  wraith,  each  form 
of  loathing  or  of  light? 

Though  we  should  puzzle  all  our  days,  we  shall  not 
know  thee  as  thou  art. 

Nor  where  the  seer  of  visions  ends,  nor  where  be- 
gins the  mmttttft^  heart. 


34 


XII. 

A  GROUP  OF  LADIES  BY  TOYOHIRO. 

O  careless  passer, — O  look  deep! 
These  forms  from  near  the  sea  of  sleep 
Come  hither:  on  each  forehead  gleams 
The  phosphorescent  spray  of  dreams. 
They  have  sailed  in  from  lonely  seas, 
Cloaked  in  a  haze  of  mysteries; 
And  hither  by  a  lord  are  led 
Who  snared  them,  pale  himself  with  dread, 
Upon  the  very  shores  of  sleep. 
O  careless  passer-by,  look  deep! 


35 


■  'l!****^* 


-•  .'.yS 


r- 


0^^^i^- 


XIII. 

PORTRAIT   OF  A   WOMAN   BY    UTAMARO 

I 

In  robes  like  clouds  at  sunset  rolled 
About  the  dying  sun, — 
In  splendid  vesture  of  purple  and  gold 
That  a  thousand  toiling  days  have  spun 
For  thee,  O  imperial  one! — 

With  the  cunning  pomp  of  the  later  years, 
With  their  pride  and  glory  and  stress, 
Thou  risest;  and  thy  calm  forehead  bears 
These  like  a  crown;  but  thy  frail  mouth  wears 
All  of  their  weariness. 

Thou  art  one  of  the  great,  who  mayest  stand 
Where  Cleopatra  stood, 
Aspasia,  Rhodope,  at  each  hand; 
And  even  the  proud  tempestuous  mood 
Of  Sappho  shall  rule  thy  blood. 

Thy  throat,  in  its  slender  whiteness  bare. 
Seems  powerless  to  sustain 

The  gorgeous  tower  of  thy  gold-decked  hair, — 
Like  a  lily's  stem  which  the  autumn  air 
Maketh  to  shrink  and  wane. 

More  haunting  music,  more  luring  love 
Round  thy  sinuous  form  hold  sway 
Than  the  daughters  of  earth  have  knowledge  of; 
For  thou  art  the  daughter  of  fading  day. 
Touched  with  all  hope's  decay. 

37 


And  the  subtle  languor,  the  prismic  glow 
Of  a  ripeness  overpast 

Burns  through  the  wonderful  curving  flow 
Of  thy  garments ;  and  they  who  love  thee  know 
A  loathing  at  the  last. 

For  they  are  the  lovers  of  living  things, — 
Stars,  sunlight,  morning's  breath; 
But  thou,  for  all  that  thy  beauty  brings 
Such  songs  as  the  Summer  scattereth, — 
Thou  art  of  the  House  of  Death. 

II 
But  there  was  one,  in  thy  golden  day. 
Who  saw  thy  poppied  bloom, 
And  loved  not  thee  but  the  heart's  decay 
That  filled  thee;  and  clasped  it  to  be  alway 
His  chosen  and  sealed  doom. 

He  who  this  living  portrait  wrought, 
Outlasting  time's  control, 
A  dark  and  bitter  nectar  sought 
Welling  from  poisoned  streams  that  roll 
Through  deserts  of  the  soul 

Ill 

Ah  dreamer!  come  at  last  where  dreams 
Can  serve  no  more  thy  need. 
Who  hast  by  such  bright  silver  streams 
Walked  with  thy  soul  that  now  earth  seems 
A  waste  where  love  must  bleed, — 

Thou  whom  such  matchless  beauty  filled 
Of  visions  frail  and  lone, — 
For  thee  all  passion  now  is  stilled; 
Thy  heart,  denied  the  life  it  willed, 
Desireth  rather  none. 

38 


And  thee  allure  no  verdant  blooms 
That  with  fresh  joy  suspire; 
But  blossoms  touched  with  coming  glooms, 
And  weariness,  and  spent  desire. 
Draw  to  thy  spirit  nigher. 

Wherefore  is  nothing  in  thy  sight 
Propitious  save  it  be 

Brushed  with  the  wings  of  hovering  night, 
Worn  with  the  shadow  of  delight. 
Sad  with  satiety. 

For  thou  hast  enmity  toward  all 
The  servants  of  life's  breath; 
One  mistress  holdeth  thee  in  thrall. 
And  them  thou  lovest  who  her  call 
Answer;  and  she  is  Death. 

IV 

Now  Death  thy  ruined  city's  streets 
Walketh,  a  grisly  queen. 
And  there  Her  sacred  horror  greets 
Him  who  invades  these  waste  retreats, 
Her  sacrosanct  demesne,— 

In  robes  like  clouds  at  sunset  rolled 
About  the  dying  sun, 
In  splendid  vestments  of  purple  and  gold 
That  a  thousand  perished  years  have  spun 
For  Her,  the  Imperial  One. 


39 


XIV 

THE  BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS  OF  HIROSHIGE 

Alilt  against  the  emerald  sky, 

A  tiny  violet  songster  swings, 
,  Clutching  a  branch,  in  ecstasy 
j  Of  light  and  height  and  skiey  things. 
/    Singing,  he  swings;  and  swinging,  I 

For  once  am  showered  with  joy  of  wings. 

Keen  and  pure,  of  a  magic  power. 
Thy  rapture  stirs  what  was  never  stirred. 
Thou  hast  brought  to  earth  a  cloudland  dower, — 
The  joy  of  the  small  sweet  singing  bird. 
All  time  is  richer  for  thy  hour 
Of  delicate  music,  gravely  heard. 

Does  the  iris  droop  beneath  the  heat? 
Its  weariness  finds  voice  in  thee. 
Does  the  pheasant  run  with  snow-clogged  feet? 
Winter  is  theirs  who  thy  vision  see. 
Is  summer's  glow  to  the  swallow  sweet? 
Thou  hast  captured  its  summer  eternally. 

Thou  hast  wrought  each  as  a  lyric  note 
Pure  with  one  mood  of  sky  and  trees 
And  flowers,  and  tiny  lives  that  float 
Or  dart  or  poise  in  world  of  these. 
The  painter's  hand,  the  thrush's  throat, — 
V  Which  masters  best  these  melodies? 

Gusty  rain  through  the  treetops  blown 
And  a  bird  that  scuds  where  the  gray  g^sts  hiss, — 
Sapphire  wings  and  a  golden  crown 
Flung  skyward  in  unconscious  bliss — 
No  rare  enchanted  bird  has  known 
As  thou  hast  known  the  savor  of  this! 

41 


And  winning  it,  thou  hast  cast  aside 
Thy  native  bonds  of  mortal  birth, — 
Flinging  the  spirit-pinions  wide 
Above  this  world  of  weary  worth, — 
To  float  and  poise  and  skyward  ride 
With  them  whose  realm  is  not  the  earth. — 

The  peacock  in  his  proud  repose — 
Wild-geese  that  rush  across  the  moon — 
The  little  sleepy  owl  that  knows 
The  wind-among-the-tree-tops  tune, — 
The  kingfisher  that  darts  and  glows 
Over  the  reeds  of  the  lagoon — 

The  fliower-lured  hummingbird  that  weaves 
Spirals  more  delicate  than  they — 
Sanderlings  that  on  moonlit  eves 
Over  the  wave-crest  swoop  and  play — 
The  crane  that  shores  of  sunset  leaves 
For  sunset  skies  of  far  away. 


42 


XV 
THE  LANDSCAPES  OF  HIROSHIGE 

As  merchantmen  from  Eastern  isles 
In  caravels  of  purple  came, 
With  freight  that  alien  heart  beguiles, — 
Incense,  and  cloths  of  woven  flame, — 

So  down  the  gulfs  of  elder  time 
Thy  glorious  pinions  bear  to  me 
Mad  treasure  from  the  unknown  clime 
Of  worlds  beyond  the  Western  Sea. 

Now  in  my  bay  the  sails  are  furled. 
But  I,  who  guess  their  native  skies. 
Henceforth  must  roam  that  golden  world, 
Where  strange  winds  whisper  and  strange  scents 
rise. 

Immortal  Fuji's  snowy  crown — 

Wide  seas  with  sky  of  amethyst — 

A  street  where  torrents  thunder  down — 

Branches  that  toss  against  the  mist — 

Smooth  hills  and  hill-girt  plains  where  run 

Streams   through   the   rice   fields  steeped  in 

heat — 
Pines  gnarled  above  a  sunken  sun — 
Cold  heights  where  cloud  and  mountain  meet. 

Now  visions  enter  to  my  breast 
That  from  thy  passion  won  their  birth 
When  like  a  bride  in  radiance  dressed 
Before  thee  glowed  the  summers  of  earth. 

43 


What  magic  gave  thee  to  behold 
This  fairness,  secret  from  our  sight, 
Where  morning  walks  the  world  in  gold, 
Or  seas  turn  gray  with  coming  night? 

For  thee,  as  when  the  South  Winds  blow, 
Lands  burst  to  bloom.     On  every  shore 
Where  beauty  dwells  thou  didst  bestow 
A  perilous  mortal  beauty  more. 

Twilight  and  morn  on  Biwa's  breast — 
Harima's  sands  and  lordly  pines — 
White  Hira-mountain's  winter  crest — 
The  low  red  dusk  round  Yedo  shrines — 
The  moon  beneath  the  Monkey  Bridge — 
The  Poisoned  River's  brooding  gloom — 
Rose-dawn  on  some  Tokaido  ridge — 
Pale  water-worlds  of  lotus  bloom. 

Our  toiling  race  is  with  the  day 
Wearied,  and  restless  with  the  night, — 
Unpausing,  on  its  tombward  way. 
For  fear  or  wonder  or  delight, — 

Unwatchful,  mid  the  somber  things 
That  mesh  us  in  a  vain  employ. 
For  peace  that  half  of  heaven  brings. 
For  beauty  that  is  wholly  joy. 

Lover  for  whom  the  world  was  wide! 
Down  lighted  pathways  thou  didst  move — 
Where  hills  and  seas  and  cities  hide 
So  much  for  weary  men  to  love. 

44 


The  mist  of  cherry  trees  in  spring — 
Ships  sleeping  on  same  bright  lagoon — 
A  swallow's  dusky  sweeping  wing — 
Steep  Ishiyama's  autumn  moon — 
The  changing  marvels  of  faint  rain — 
The  foam  that  hides  the  torrent's  stream— 
The  eagle  o'er  the  snowy  plain — 
Sea-twilights  haunted  as  a  dream. 

Speaking,  thou  laidst  thy  brush  aside, — 
"On  a  long  journey  I  repair — 
Regions  beyond  the  Western  Tide — 
To  view  the  wonderful  landscapes  there." 

Yet,  at  Adzuma,  loosed  from  all 
Thy  mortal  bonds,  made  free  to  roam, 
Methinks  thou  couldst  not  break  the  thrall 
That  held  thee  to  thy  human  home. 

Surely  no  heaven  could  harbor  thee, 
Nor  other  world  of  keener  bliss. 
Who  didst  with  such  deep  constancy 
Worship  the  loveliness  of  this. — 

Moon-flooded  throngs  in  Yedo's  streets— 
Dawn-quickened  travelers  on  their  road — 
Lone  ocean-fronting  hill  retreats — 
An  Oiran's  perilous-sweet  abode — 
A  mighty  Buddha  by  the  sea 
Where  all  the  wondering  pilgrims  meet — 
Immortal  Fuji,  changelessly 
Watching  the  world  around  her  feet. 


45 


/> 


^^  UerttBl^     Cty      (^i/nia9x4^ 


EPILOGUE 

Bring  forth,  my  friend,  these  faded  sheets, 
Whose  charm  our  labored  utterance  flies. 
Perhaps  our  later  search  repeats 
The  groping  of  those  scholars'  eyes 

Who,  ere  the  dawned  Renaissant  day, 
With  dusked  sight  and  doubtful  hand, 
Bent  o'er  the  pages  of  some  gray 
Greek  text  they  could  not  understand; 

Drawn  by  the  sense  that  there  concealed 
Lay  key  to  spacious  realms  unknown; 
Held  by  the  need  that  be  revealed 
Forgotten  worlds  to  light  their  own. 


Japanese  Print 

Featherlight,   on   a  blossomy  cherry 

bough 
A  pensive  bird  high-lights  a  peaceful 

scene — 
Swung  upward  by  invisible  wires 
A  silvery  moon  like  a  lantern  huge 
Bathes   with  pearly,  iridescent  light 
This  valued  Japanese  colored  print 
That  han^s  upon  my  wall. 

Beautiful  you  are  as  the  memory 
'Of   the    old    protcesor    who    brought 

you 
Across  the  waters  to  abide  with  me. 
Beautiful,  magical  as  sunlight 
Warming    and    love-lighting    a    vast 

landscape. 
Mine  for  the  eyes  quick-garnering 
For  dreams — sweet  lotus-land, 

Ida  C'roikkr  I>u.xca.\. 


Hiroshige 


In  land  of  picture-books  we  wander, 

By  temple  shrines  enwreathed  in 
snow 

Softer  than  cherry  blossoms.  Yon- 
der 

A  sea-strip — vivid  indigo 

Is  flecked  with  fluttering  wings  of 
sail — 

Then  turn  the  page — 

See  where  the  cone  of  F*ujiyama 
shines 

Through  slanting  streaks  of  rain; 

And  straggling  lines 

Of  toiling  travelers  on  a  pilgrimage, 

Beaten  by  thwarting  gale 

Are  struggling — ^vain— 

To  reach  the  arching  bridg'e.  There 

gray  and  pale 
Pawlonia  trees  are  shuddering  in  the  i 

storm —  I 

Each  tottering,  unsubstantial  form— r 
A  witch  in  some  old  fairy  tale. 

And  now  in  sunshine  all  the  sea  is 

dancing, 
Rimmed  with  deep  blue  the  distant 

hills- 
While     darting    rays    of    light    are 

glancing 
From  white-edged  waves  that  crisp 

and  curl 
In  whirlpools  of  innumerable  rills,      • 
That  seethe  and  toss  and  swirl.  I 


Then    evening    hushed    a'nB    silvery- 
blue 
In  misty  gloaming— 
The  tapestry  of  sky  shot  through 
With  star-points,  keen  and  bright. 
The     woodland     creatures     all     are 

roaming, 
Roused  from  their  dreaming — 
Lo — oh  the  hills  the  foxes  white 
In  the  blue  shadows  gleaming. 
Gathered  from   some  strange  rite — 

far.  far  away 
From  all  the  haunts  of  man. 
This  is  the  v.-jzard- this  Hiroshige— 
Painter  of  wistful,  delicate  Japan. 

<^'lIARLOTTE   F.    BaBCOCK. 


1 


This  edition  of  Twelve  Japanese  Painters^  by 
Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  is  limited  to  250  copies,  of 
which  100  are  for  sale.  Designed  and  printed  by 
the  Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  Company  in  Chicago, 
after  which  the  type  was  distributed.  March, 
MCMXIII. 


Color  Print  by  Hiroshi^e 

A    yellow    raft    sails    up    the    bluest 

stream 
I  And  cherry-blossoms  cloud  the  shore 

with  pink; 
The  sky  grows  clearer  with  a  curious 

gleam 
And  boys   come   playing  to  the  river 

brink. 

A  grayish  gull  descends  to  preen  and 
;  prink, 

I  Far  off,  a  singing  plowman  drives  hi^ 
I  team — 

j  A    yellow    raft    sails    up    the    bluest 

stream 
I  And  cherry-blossoms  cloud  the  shore 
!  with  pink  .    .    . 

Oh,  to  be  there;  far  from  this  tangled 
I  scheme 

!  Of  strident  days  and  nights  that  flare 
and  sink. 
Beauty   shall    lift   us   with   a   colored 

dream; 
And,  as  we  muse,  too  rapt  and  wise 

to  think, 
A    yellow    raft    sails    up    the    bluest 

stream 
And  cherry-blossoms  cloud  the  shore 
with  pink. 

— Louis  Untermeyer. 


Butterfly  Poetry 

The  poetry  of  Japan  reached  its 
zenith  .  .  .  between  the  eighth  and 
twelfth  centuries.  The  eighth  cen- 
tury poet,  Hitomarp,  wrote  "long 
poetry."  His  verse  consisted  of  alter- 
nating phrases  of  fire  and  ten  syl- 
lables. But,  short  as  his  poems  were, 
they  did  not  satisfy  the  Japanese 
delight  in  brevity,  in  the  mere  hint, 
and  the  tanka  began  to  flit  through 
Japan  like  a  moth  in  the  moonlight. 
It  contains  only  thirty-one  syllables, 
arranged  in  five  phrases  of  five, 
seven,  five,  seven,  and  again  seven 
syllables,  but  translators  have  seldom 
bound  themselves  by  this  arrange- 
ment: their  effort  has  been  to  con- 
vey the  lightness,  the  delicate  flick, 
and  wistful  brevity  of  these  little 
exclamatory  poems. 

The  haikai  was  developed  from  the 
tanka  by  reduction;  it  is  little  more 
than  half  a  tanka,  for  it  runs  to  only 
seventeen  syllables.  It  has  been  de- 
scribed as  "a  Japanese  sketch,  which 
encloses  in  a  few  precise  strokes, 
either  the  subtlest  details  of  a  hu- 
man chronicle  or  the  spaces  of  an 
infinite  landscape."  Here  is  an 
early  haikai: 

"Thought  I,  the  fallen  flowers" 
Are  returning  to  their  branch: 
But  Ip!  they  were  butterflies." 

Just  a  light,  unexpected,  and  beau- 
tiful fancy  put  into  beautiful  words 
— more  beautiful  than  can  be  con- 
veyed In  English. 


The"  art "  of  'the  halkaT'lanT^'Ee'l 
Japanese  feeling  for  it,  are  indicated  j 
in  a  delightful  story  which  Mr.  W. 
G.  Aston  tells,  in  his  "History  of 
Japanese  Literature,"  of  one  of  its 
greatest  masters,  Matsura  Basho. 
One  day,  while  travelling,  he  came 
on  a  party  of  peasants  who  were 
.  *  .  throwing  off  haikais  in  com- 
petition. When  he  appeared  the  sub- 
ject they  had  just  selected  was  the 
full  moon,  and,  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  a  wandering  Buddhist 
priest,  they  invited  him  to  join  them 
and  show  what  he  could  do.  The 
great  artist  seemed  to  hesitate.  He 
then  began: 

"Twas  the  new  moon." 

Whereupon  they  laughed  and  mocked  j 
him.    "The  nev  moon!    What  a  fool  i 
this  priest  is!    The  poem  should  be 
about  the  full  moon."    "Let  him  go 
on,"   said    another,    "we    shall    have 
the  better   sport."    Basho   went  on: 

"'Twas  the  new  moon! 
Since  then  I   waited — 
And,  lo!    tonight!" 

The  little  band  fell  into  silent  ad- 
miration, and,  on  learning  who  the 
stranger  was,  ihe\Y  spokesman  apol- 
ogized to  the  poet,  "whose  fragrant 
name  was  known  to  the  whole 
world."  ... 

"I  come  aweary, 
In  search  of  an  inn — 
Ah!  these  wistaria  flowers."  . . . 

A  larger  theme  is  this  landscape: 

"Pilgrims  on  the  road 
Their  bells   swing 
Above  the  harvest." 

It  may  seem  easy  to  produce  these 
little  gems  of  vision  and  feeling; 
but  ay! — From  "Unposted  Letters," 
by  John  O'London 


i 


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